


one, two, three means—

by cassieoh_draws (cassieoh), sosobriquet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Regiment, Gen, Scene: Aziraphale's Trial in Heaven (Good Omens), The Fall (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet
Summary: Then the angel looks up at Eric, merciless and unafraid, and all their bravado vanishes.Something about the face is familiar to them; the softness, the lines of care etched onto it. But the eyes are too cold, too uncaring. They keep expecting to see the angel crying; not from fear, but pity and remorse. They cannot imagine why.A memory washes over them, burning like sulfur.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Eric (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	one, two, three means—

**Author's Note:**

> Written by sosobriquet, art by cassieoh for the Yuck! There's Demons in My Zine! zine <3

“Can I hit him?” Eric asks, nervous and overeager, made bold by the roar of Hellfire. “I’ve always wanted to hit an angel.”

“Go ahead,” says the balding archangel, sly in a way that makes their skin crawl. The smile he flashes is worse still, and it’s nothing to do with the gold cross embedded in his teeth.

Eric walks over to the bound angel. With every step their confidence grows; fanned to a flame by the familiar crackle of Hellfire, and by the inaction of every angel present. 

They’re going to strike an angel. No demon has so much as laid hands on an angel, not since the Fall.

Then the angel looks up at them, merciless and unafraid, and all their bravado vanishes.

Something about the face is familiar to them; the softness, the lines of care etched onto it. But the eyes are too cold, too uncaring. They keep expecting to see the angel crying; not from fear, but pity and remorse. They cannot imagine _why_.

A memory washes over them, burning like sulfur.

_"I'm so sorry, dear one," says the voice at Lahatiel’s back, low and secret. The knee pressing into their spine is heavy and inexorable, but the hands on their wings are unexpectedly gentle._

_"They've given me my orders, and I must carry them out I'm afraid," the voice speaks again, hands tightening around the bones of their wings, pulling them upward until the strain passes into ache._

_"I'm so sorry," the voice cracks, even at a whisper. Their bones splinter under the pressure and the pull._

_Lahatiel has never known pain before this moment. All the air rushes from lungs they’ve never used for anything but singing, their scream is soundless from the pain._

_The knee holding them down and the hands holding them up disappear, and they slump to the ground. A broken vessel. Empty. Hollowed out._

_Shattered._

_They kneel there, curled in on themselves like it will protect them, but it’s too late for that. Their chest heaves, desperate for breath they never needed before, for something to fill the awful yawning hole in their chest where just moments ago they had been filled with God and Love and Light._

_The movement jostles their ruined wings, but the pain of that seems small compared to the ragged emptiness growing inside them._

_The angel at their back stands over them, letting them drown in their grief and their pain. And then those implacable hands are on their shoulders, gripping them, lifting them to their feet. But not hurting them further. Perhaps there is no more pain to be felt. Perhaps their executioner is being kind._

_“Turn around,” says the angel, with a voice that rolls like thunder, one meant to be obeyed. A softer, quieter, “please,” follows, as if he is afraid of being overheard. Lahatiel turns to face him, too used to obeying that voice to defy it now. Even in the face of a much greater and more devastating defiance, force of habit chooses for them._

_“I am so sorry, dear one,” Lahatiel’s former leader says, deep lines carved into his face that had never been there before. Tears have left tracks in the blood and soot covering his face. He looks old, and haggard, and tired. Angels were never meant to look this way._

_Angels were never meant to cry._

_The angel squares his shoulders, and his face hardens, turning steely except for his eyes, which remain wet with tears. He takes a step forward, Lahatiel takes a step back._

_“But I must,” he says. Another step forward, another step back. Until Lahatiel feels a great wind at their back and a sense that another step will send them plummeting into the abyss._

_A hand settles on their chest, but does not push, not yet. The thumb taps against their breastbone—one, two, three times._

_“Mind how you go,” their former leader tells them softly and puts a little weight behind the hand on their chest. The smallest push, not enough to move them._

_Lahatiel steps back, onto nothing but empty air, and Falls._

Eric flinches back from the cold look on the face that is no longer just familiar, but _known_. It is the last face they'd seen before the worst moments _—_ hours, days _—_ of their life. And the last face that ever gave them a kind look. The face of their old platoon leader, when they had still been an angel, when they had still been whole.

 _Aziraphale._ They had forgotten that name.

There is no kindness in those familiar eyes now, only a cold fury that chills Eric to the bone. Almost as if they're no longer looking at the same angel that had so reluctantly thrown them from the highest heights. 

One of the other angels clears their throat, and it startles Eric from their thoughts. They flinch, their shoulders slump, they step back. The curl of Aziraphale’s lip is too cold and too cruel, his eyes full of a pitiless rage that nearly renders him unrecognizable.

“You’ve had your chance,” says the bossy-looking one, sharp and bored, “Are you done _yet?”_

Eric takes one step back _—_ two, three _—_ and shakes their head. They no longer have any desire to strike the angel bound before them, only a sick, twisting pit in their stomach to know that some angels are still so eager to destroy their own.

“No thanks,” they say, turning to leave, “changed m’mind. I’ll be back for the Hellfire later.”

Casting one last look over their shoulder, Eric enters the elevator. The cold disinterest on Azirapahle’s face has sunk its teeth in them. There’s something very familiar about that expression, but the strangeness of it on that expressive face will not let them go. 

A sneaking suspicion steals over them, curls their mouth into a devious little smile. They think that the archangels are about to have a nasty little shock, and they imagine the fear they’ll see when they return for the Hellfire.

 _Serves them right_ , Eric thinks as the doors close and descend into Hell.


End file.
